Geraldine turned and met his gaze. He arose and placed a chair for her.
"I wished to speak to you," he said direct, "I wish to speak about Max."
"Yes," she said, and her manner was gentle and womanly.
He was conscious of thinking that she had good blood in her veins; her voice and manner proclaimed it; and all she lacked was a fortune such as Max could give her.
"You understand, Geraldine, that Max has all the comforts of life to give the woman he marries."
"Yes, I know."
"The truth sometimes sounds harsh when spoken plainly, Geraldine; but you are aware, that however loved and welcome you have been beneath my roof, that you are a dowerless girl. It was my desire that you be given every advantage that a girl of wealth receives, and your aunt has seen that my wishes were carried out. Now you are offered a home and fortune that will give you the comforts and luxuries of life to which you have been accustomed. Can you afford to lose this opportunity?"
"I cannot marry Max Morrison."
He met her eyes; they had been dark and sweet like pansies; now they were wide and blue. He felt the hopelessness of argument. He knew the Vanes; they appeared yielding and docile, but he knew them to be flint and steel where a principle was concerned. He arose, impatient to be away.
A few days later it was known that Max Morrison had enlisted with a company of volunteers, and was going to the Philippines.